


i'm going home (to the place where i belong)

by ticoyuu



Series: home is where you are [1]
Category: Persona 5, Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor
Genre: M/M, deeply existential angstbel, i set out to write porn but emotion nutted instead, mentions of a couple desu characters and mona, the conclusion is happy i promise, violence consumption lust and other generally demonic stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 05:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticoyuu/pseuds/ticoyuu
Summary: Abel, demon lord and king of kings; wanderlust, demon magic and all, is singlemindedly devoted like a demon and loves like a human, and lusts like both.Sometimes he needs to run free, but home is where the heart is, and Akira is always the home he returns to.





	i'm going home (to the place where i belong)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [habenaria_radiata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/habenaria_radiata/gifts).



> hi i'm geck and i'm officially joining [radi's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/habenaria_radiata/pseuds/habenaria_radiata) akirabel pool noodle. i've been listening to home by daughtry on loop for about two hours and this is the completely unforeseeable result when i set out determined to write filthy degenerate porn, i hope it's enjoyable :3/ n-nya

 How long have you been gone this time?

There are times you want so bad to give in to the wanderlust and so you do, and this perfect angel named Akira Kurusu nods as you glance away from his gorgeous chocolate eyes and awkwardly dance around the elephant in the room, understanding but a little forlorn, and tells you he’ll wait.

There are times you feel guilty, and it’s the same feeling you try so hard not to think about; the one that calls to mind old memories of times when you stood by your convictions and some of your friends stood by theirs, and you ended up parting ways.

Time flows differently in the in-between. For you, King of Bel, no longer human, lord over demonkind, it’s as good as stopped forever.

In your lifetime, there are things you don’t regret and things you do. While the choices you made during the ordeal are solidly the former, leaving Akira to temporarily --it’s always only temporary, like a hit for a drug user-- sate your wanderlust; _bloodlust_ , in the realm of demons, is always the latter.

.

.

.

 

You tear a Hamsa limb from limb, toss it aside without a moment’s hesitation and call Jezebel’s beautiful blooming flames to burst over a lesser tyrant. It ignites instantly and the formless energy mantle writhing around you snaps out, red-black sparks and howling tongues, and consumes the pyre before it burns out.

Your magic consumes the bursts of magnetite, but there’s something revoltingly inhumanly _lustful_ about your craving to feel blood pulsing on your tongue and resistance against your teeth and you spit out a couple ragged goose downs and wipe your wet lips, and they curl at the corners behind your fingers.

When your mouth slashes open and your eyes spark and glow; it’s a predator’s grin and a cloak of entropy that you wear and this, this is what you are: this is the King of Bel, this is you with your blood roaring in your ears on the prowl as the demon realm’s unparalleled overlord, feeling like nothing could be more satisfying and nowhere as _home_ as this scene of carnage scorched by two red suns.

 

When your hunger is sated, your magic hums a quietly pleased tune pulsing in time with your heart. It sings through your veins, calm and pleased and little red sparks dance in the air around your head and Pixies come to play; and you scratch behind the patchwork ears of a Hare of Inaba as it pushes its velvety muzzle against your palm. It would be picturesque; pastoral even, if you didn’t know it was sniffing and tickling your fingers seeking the residual smell of blood. 

Humans require food and demons need magnetite, and nothing in the demon realm will hold a grudge for feeding.

 

But then Akira’s face, afraid and beyond disturbed in your mind’s eye, tousled dark hair overlaps with straight strawberry blond and wide eyes framed with feminine lashes, pupils blown huge with fear.

Keisuke looks at you with none-too-surprised disappointment and Yuzu is afraid and disgusted and disappointed, and Atsuro is too despite his decision to stay with you and you loved him for it even if you could taste his fear in the air with your weirdly sharpened senses and _yeah,_ that’s fair, he’s only human. 

Naoya saw you gratified and triumphant and his gaze carried hunger, not too different from what your prey probably sees when you stalk towards it, fluid and catlike. He thinks like a demon with the wisdom of ages, all calculations and controlled hunger, and saw in you the lit fuse for his ambition. You begrudge him none of that, too, since he’s been human and then simultaneously not, for far longer than you could ever realistically conceive. You love him and he loved you and those urges twined like ivy, curling through soft memories of your cousin who was like a big brother. That’s just as fair as Atsuro’s fear, you thought, because humans think like humans and demons think like demons. Love and lust, _hunger_ , often go hand in hand and demons are probably a couple stages up from humans on that one, you think.

You remember none of this while in the heat of the moment and your magic is singing the primal urge of hunt and sustain, but when the pyre lies quiet and your human thoughts are echoing in the silence after, you unconsciously seek comfort thinking of Akira who loves you mutually and accepts you and has more than one trick of his own up his sleeves, but there’s nothing you can argue when your subconscious betrays you by blurring old memories with what you have now. The images themselves are faded, but the emotions, vague as they’ve become, are only strengthened by the fact you don’t remember so vividly and they weave in your mind like smoke, acrid and hazy.

 

And then you stand up and dust off your pants and magic the stains and rips out of your clothes and you _could_ go find some secluded haven to wallow in your deeply seated intrusive anxiety, but instead you make the conscious choice to return to Akira because home is where the heart is and your heart’s with him in the world he’s made home with you. You trust him to welcome you home as much as he trusted you to come back enough to say _I’ll wait for you_ with that unsurprising perception and you immediately close your eyes, lighting your path with a brief spark of magic. When you find yourself in the corridor with infinite, identical doors, you find the one whose faintly pulsing energy signature you know by heart and swear it seems to feel inviting.

When you fall through the black space beyond the door (this particular darkness is warm and gentle and it feels like _flying_ rather than falling and you know because you’ve become intimately familiar with both of those), and then you blink and you’re there in a modest attic and your love of many lifetimes from the present stretching onwards out of sight is fast asleep on a small and stiff but familiar bed with Morgana the cat curled up snoring soft little kitty sighs on his chest.

Affection like a human and the primal undying devotion of demonkind wells up in your entire being looking at them, and you fluff Mona’s ears and he doesn’t wake up but stretches a bit and settles against your hand in his sleep, and then you step around the creaky board by the bunk’s far leg and tuck yourself between the wall and Akira’s side right up against him and literally nothing ever could give you more satisfaction than this.

 

Akira sleeps more lightly than his cat so he blinks awake while barely shifting, and you find him gazing at you affectionately and then he bumps your nose with his and whispers _Welcome home_ , and _yeah,_ you’re glad to be home.


End file.
